


coming back from what seemed like a ruin

by lanyon



Category: Kings
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Andrew Cross is a one-man army and Jack discovers a little faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	coming back from what seemed like a ruin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lorax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorax/gifts).



“Our family’s full of black sheep. What do you call a white sheep in a family of black sheep?”

“Michelle.”

The bar is a dive, not far from the border of Gilboa. Jack knows that if his father had an inkling he was here, he would rain down righteous fury and napalm. If his father knew that Andrew was here, too, he might even be a little concerned.

“The labrador is being groomed for the throne,” says Andrew, fingers curled around a dirty tumbler of dirtier whiskey. “ _Your_ throne.”

Jack is, alas, not above flattery but at least, now, he can recognise it. He smiles at Andrew and nods at the bartender, a handsome man with a mouth for blowjobs and grime under his fingernails. Jack probably shouldn’t touch the walls. A smeared glass is put in front of him, half-filled with some unidentified clear liquid. 

He drains it with a burning swallow. 

“How did you get out?” asks Andrew. “I mean. I have guys. I have guys who have guys and they don’t know how-”

Jack says nothing about how he has a mouth for blowjobs and a pregnant wife. Jack is now, officially, surplus to requirements. Jack is now, officially, the late Crown Prince of Gilboa.

“So,” says Andrew. He seems unperturbed that Jack is barely speaking to him. “I’m planning to invade Gilboa. Seize the crown. You want it?”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “You’re going to invade Gilboa?”

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. And with which army?” Jack folds his arms. He is a soldier. He is a commander of soldiers. He knows what it is to fight. 

“Gath’s,” says Andrew. “Ideally. Or none. They won’t see that coming.” He shrugs, loose-limbed and limber and very, very dangerous. “My aunt’s husband must die.”

Jack has wished Silas dead so often and yet it is still jarring to hear the words spoken aloud and by someone who is not him, who does not bloody his knuckles by punching stone walls and shards of mirror and seven by seven years of bad luck. 

“Why?” asks Jack. “Why are you doing this?”

“You remember that I was the sort of son never to make a father proud?”

(The sort of child who plucked wings from butterflies.) 

Jack is non-committal. 

Silas is dead.

It’s anticlimactic, in the end. 

Silas is dead because his heart stopped and it didn’t even take a bullet or a Goliath tank or an electric chair. There is nothing suspicious which is, in itself, suspicious but the butterflies have decamped for brighter, blonder, kinglier heads.

Silas is dead and the hand of friendship is cordially extended to Jack Benjamin, who is not king, who will never, ever be king. Lucinda is pregnant with twins, due in a month. 

_We welcome our brother_ , says the King. _With open arms_.

Jack does not believe and his sister says that he is lacking in faith. 

“Keep your friends close,” says Jack. “And your enemies closer.” Michelle looks perturbed and Jack flashes her a slow, uneasy smile. “Best keep Andrew in a headlock. Wrap your arms and your legs around him, sister dear, because he has his eyes on the throne.”

“And you do not?”

“What good is a throne, when the people despise me?”

“They do not despise you.”

“You are too charitable,” says Jack. “Where’s Mother?”

“With your wife and future children,” says Michelle. It’s not said pointedly but she is making a point. 

“So Mother and Lucinda are exiled and I am welcomed back to the fold,” says Jack.

“You are a good soldier,” says David, walking into the room with the kind of presence one expects of an inadvertently conquering hero. “We need good soldiers. Good commanders. You inspire - ah - military loyalty.”

Jack rubs his forehead. He pinches his nose. David is just the sort of man to give an army to his nearest rival. Just the sort. 

“You should be king,” says David, awkwardly. 

“The butterflies chose you,” says Jack because that’s an excellent method of government. His lips twist into a smile. “The worms chose my father and I-”

“ _I_ choose you,” says David. His voice is firm. 

Jack squints at him. “The butterflies are prettier.” He turns away and he doesn’t care that it’s not the done thing to walk away from the King but he’s been walking away for years. “Exile Andrew,” he says, as he leaves the room. “Or imprison him. Or kill him.”

“I don’t think it will come to that,” says David. “What can one man do?”

It turns out that one man can do a great deal. William Cross dies of apparently natural causes. The pathologist comes to Jack, on David’s direction. 

“Colonel Benjamin,” she says. “The King says you might be interested in these findings.” She hesitates, her fingers closing tighter on the manilla folder in her hands. “Some families find autopsy reports upsetting.”

“We are not some families,” says Jack. He takes the file. The pathologist has highlighted the relevant findings. Normal heart. Normal lungs. Positive toxicology; alcohol and morphine and a pin prick between the first and second toe of the right foot. Jack frowns. 

“Murder?” he asks. 

“Not natural,” she says. “And no evidence of prior intravenous drug use so there’s a chance this wasn’t self-inflicted.”

“My father-” says Jack. 

“The King has ordered a second autopsy,” she says. 

“How noble,” says Jack.

He is not surprised when the King summons him. 

“Where’s my sister?”

“She’s with Daniel and your mother. Lucinda has gone into labour.”

Jack knows he should feel something. He doesn’t. “Should I send a fruit basket?” he asks. “Or make a sacrifice?”

“Say a prayer,” says David. “A prayer for absolution.” 

“I think that even my children are too young to have sinned,” says Jack.

“No,” says David. “This is your absolution. I have a task for you.”

Jack knows what it is. Of course he does. Of course, it has come to this. “Andrew?”

“Is a danger to the throne,” says David. “And to the people of Gilboa.” 

He walks over to Jack and places his hands on his shoulder. He kisses Jack’s cheeks. This might be absolution or it might be temptation. 

“I loved a man,” says Jack. He is trying to shock David. “His name was Joseph and he died because he had a really, really stupid notion of what honour might be.” He looks David in the eye. “I am not similarly afflicted.”

“But I am?” asks David, with a twitch of his lips.

“Certainly,” says Jack. “Honour and Kings do not go well together.”

“That is why I have you,” says David and it comes as a shock to Jack that, yes, he does. David does have him. 

Jack taps his chin, thoughtfully. “That is why I am not King.” 

“No butterflies?”

“No honour.”

“You have honour enough,” says David. “Report back to me, only.” He closes his eyes. “When it is done.”

Jack smiles. “My King.” 

The bar is a dive, not far from the border of Gilboa. Andrew knows why Jack is there.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide to lorax! I adored this prompt and can definitely envisage a Jack/David sequel to this. I do hope you enjoyed it.  
> Many thanks to Michelle for epic cheerleading/reading-through via Twitter, text and Gdoc. Life saver!  
> Title from The National's _Pink Rabbits_


End file.
